


This Is How Monsters Are Made

by sophoklesworld



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Baltimore, Character Death, Dark Andrew Minyard, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Neil died in Baltimore, POV Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophoklesworld/pseuds/sophoklesworld
Summary: The moment Neil Josten died was the moment a Monster was well and truly born. It was the only moment with significance, the only moment he did not want to make significant. The moment that should not exist.*  *  *Slightly different circumstances, bad timing, lead to Neil's death in Baltimore. Andrew gives in to the name he has been called a long time.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	This Is How Monsters Are Made

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by 'How Villains Are Made' by Madalen Duke, and the fic is probably also inspired by that, and some other fics, I suppose. I can't even name the sources of my inspiration, because in theory I'm stuck in a 100k WIP with writing and this is just. Something else.
> 
> I would not actually call any of this Graphic Depiction of Violence but better safe than sorry.
> 
> Enjoy reading!

Darkness had always been part of Andrew.

Arguably, it had not _always_ been part of him.

It had been thrust upon him.

The first seeds had been planted in his soul with the treatment he had been granted, had endured during his childhood.

Here, it was debatable whether his foster homes had planted the first seeds or if they had caused the seeds to blossom. Andrew was of the opinion that darkness had taken hold of him, had been ingrained in his very being, the moment he had been carted off, no, _discarded_ by his own not-mother. By the woman who should have felt an inherent protectiveness for him. He had an eidetic memory. But even that did not reach to the first days of his life. It did not stop his brain from imagining a cold, almost cruel and very very dark look in the woman’s eyes, looking at him only once but with nothing but disdain and the opposite of want. He had gotten to know Tilda in later years. He had seen the darkness, and he wondered how much of it she had already placed in his heart, because surely, she must have carried more of it. It did not matter, in the end.

Andrew carried the darkness.

There may be a difference between darkness and cruelty. Andrew supposed there was a line between the two. In his own experiences, it did not take much to cross that line.

Andrew could pinpoint the exact moment when he had crossed from darkness (questionably reasonable) to cruelty.  
He remembered it. He remembered the panic it had started with. He remembered the words spoken around him. He remembered the smell. He remembered the time. He remembered the place.

He remembered the reason.

He remembered the exact moment when he let himself become the Monster that people had called him for a long time already.

* * *

There were many times people would pinpoint as the moment Andrew crossed the line, the moment Andrew succumbed to the darkness. There was only one moment, Andrew succumbed to it.

* * *

The first time he had been called a monster had been early in his youth. It was not justified. It was a child that did not understand Andrew and his boundaries. It was a child that did not deserve Andrew remembering its name. It was inconsequential.

The first time it stung to be called a monster was in his teenage years. He had not actually been called a monster. But Aaron’s eyes had screamed the word whenever they settled on Andrew’s long enough. It was almost enough to become the monster.

The first time adults had referred to him as a monster was when he strode through Eden’s Twilight, a questionable reputation heavily protecting his back, a cold stare clearing up his path to the club’s kitchen at his front. It was useful.

The first time the authorities referred to him as a monster it was unjustified as much as it was justified. Andrew did not care for the name. Aaron’s eyes screamed the name still, but now half the anger was directed at the judge. Nicky called the name unjustified. He called Andrew a lot of nice things Andrew did decidedly not want to be called. The name was just as unjustified as the meds. Andrew found the meds a lot more unforgivable than the name.

The first time that Andrew heard the name monster whispered in his own head, he did not abide to it. It was not true. It was a necessity. Truth was as inevitable as darkness. A truth was needed. Darkness would bring it. The monster was not yet at the tipping point of the scale. A balance was maintained, still, even though precariously. Andrew did not listen to the name his own brain spat at him. Kevin was spilling words, not his guts. The name was irrelevant.

* * *

Andrew remembered the reason very well. The reason was a truth bundled up in lies. In the end, so many lies were laid bare but most of the truth would stay hidden forever. All that remained was a name. Nathaniel Wesninski. Another name. Abram. Scars. Blue eyes. Auburn hair. Attitude. Moriyama’s. _Thank you, you were amazing._ Those were truths.

The number four. A name, again. Neil Josten. Striker or Backliner. Dead parents. Broken promises. Moriyama’s. _This is nothing_. Those were lies.

In the end, Neil Josten had been the only truth. The only lie. The only reason.

* * *

The moment was simple. The moment was dwindling flashing blue lights in the dead of night. The moment was a group of rattled misfits anxiously waiting in a bus. The moment was staring at the mottling dark bruise around Kevin’s neck. The moment was a ringing phone. The moment was a gruff voice. The moment was an angry move, a suddenly clasped phone, an unfamiliar voice in his ear. The moment was the unfamiliar voice being burned into his memory, uneven, unflinching, unshaken. The moment was the beginning of nightmares featuring the unfamiliar voice in sleep and in waking, until its sound would become unrelentingly and painfully familiar. Inevitable. Irrefutable. The moment was disbelief. The moment was anger, was hate, was fear. The moment was pain. The moment was death.

The moment was all of that and more. Sequentially and all at once.

* * *

The moment Neil Josten died was the moment a Monster was well and truly born. It was the only moment with significance, the only moment he did not want to make significant. The moment that should not exist.

* * *

The first time the Monster struck was in Baltimore. That may have been predictable. The target was a woman in police custody. She confessed and she was laughing. Fire was her friend and fire would be her punishment. It felt like vindication. It felt like ash. It felt like nothing. It was not worth it even though it was. The first time the Monster struck, it had been alive for three days.

The second time the Monster struck, the anger coiled around it, struck at unassuming people. It made the Monster a monster. The cruel line had been crossed before, entangled with the darkness. But here, cruelty had a head-start over the darkness. Here, cruelty listened to no one. Anger and rage hurting bystanders like a stray Exy ball. And it was a moment the Monster felt cruelty and insanity clash. Sanity was washed away. The Monster was unsure what made for insanity. The fact that 'a stray Exy ball' was a valid analogy, or that other people begged it to stop and it felt cruel towards the Monster. Whatever insanity and cruelty clashed inside of it, the Foxes became a target of his words and silence. It was the first time, the Monster was almost rueful to strike. It had been alive, writhing, slashing against its bound for the next prey for eight days.

The third time the Monster struck, it was in Seattle. It was an irony. A death ended with Seattle — a mother. Another death, a more important death, a moment that should not exist, ended with Seattle again — a son.  
The Monster only found out about that irony when the target had the audacity to sneer and brag about it. The Monster assumed the target thought rescue would come. Maybe it might, or maybe the Moriyama’s would replace their Butcher with their Monster. They were too late, either way. It was an irony and it made the pain of the first moment rage with a ferocity. It was ironic because the face of a lie became the face of a truth became the face of another man, mirrored in the same auburn hair, the same eyes. It was the first time the Monster felt utterly subjected to cruelty. The Monster had been alive for twenty four days and nine hours seven minutes and the most important target had been eliminated.

The fourth time the Monster struck it was easy. It was in a hospital and the Monster became an angel of death. Death was already knocking on the target’s doors. The Monster’s little wave and bored eye contact only pushed the doors open. It was the first time a death was cashed in without physical harm by the Monster. The Monster had been alive for twenty seven days and a personal mark, raven, was next on the list and it let the rage scream in excitement.

The fifth time the Monster struck was in Evermore. The fifth time was a lot of first times for the Monster. It was the first time in the eye of the public. The first time in the black stadium. The first time that the noisy crowds became overbearing. The first time that the Foxes looked at the Monster and their eyes screamed 'monster', similar to the way Aaron had looked at Andrew, or understanding defeat that Renee had never directed at Andrew. It was the first time, their eyes screamed 'monster' but every single one of them still trusted it with their back.  
It was the first time the Monster held up a one-man barricade between a fractured team and a broken cruel black-dressed striker that could not take no for an answer. It was the first time the Foxes played with a forbidden low number. It was the first time the Foxes won against the Ravens.  
It was the second time Riko tried to properly strike Kevin. It was the first time he tried to do so in public. It was the first time Riko got his arm broken for his efforts. It was the first time the Monster smiled, and it felt sour, cold, wrong.  
It was the first time, someone else finished the Monster’s efforts. 'Suicide', the papers said. 'Family Feud', the Monster thought. It was the first time the distinction made no difference. The Monster had been alive for thirty one days and it was ravenous for a murder it had not committed itself.

The sixth time the Monster struck, an unassuming broken man opened his front door. He was leaning heavily on a cane and reeking of alcohol. The sixth time the Monster struck it did not struck because for the crushed man, life would be a greater and crueler punishment than death. The sixth time the monster struck, the fear and anger on the man’s face were met with a sneer. It was the first time the Monster had left behind a sorry puddle of a man and felt satisfaction. The Monster had been alive for thirty seven days and it was on a tight-gripped flight for a final kill.

The last time the Monster struck was in an undisclosed location in the United Kingdom. It had been painstaking to find. It was not verifiably the last time the Monster struck. It was the last kill that actually counted for something. It was the last family member of a truth wrapped in lies. A last failure standing between the Monster and the moment that should not exist. The last time the Monster struck, it was met without begging, without anger. Acceptance and regret. It was met with the unflinching eyes of a man that knew he had failed.

The last time the Monster struck it hit a target on even footing. The last time the Monster struck, it was the first time his own feelings were mirrored in the target's eyes.

The last time the Monster struck it was the beginning of the end. It was the beginning of a painstaking exercise in breathing, moving, eating, and gathering up every ounce of _caring_ that could be found in the darkness. Day in, day out. It was the beginning of a work that was as dark as the darkness, only tainted and colored by the red of blood. It was the continuation of promises never forgotten. It was the beginning, the continuation of the truth of _alone_.

It was the beginning of the Foxes joining forces. It was the beginning of an all-consuming fight against the Moriyama’s. It was the beginning of pictures and drawings adorning dark walls, bright in their colors, auburn-red hair, icy-blue eyes. A remembrance, a reminder, a promise.

It was the beginning of the end.


End file.
